A Dwindling Pool of Light
by Thistlerose
Summary: Many years in the future, Mal still observes Unification Day his own way. Set after the movie. Allusions to Mal/River, Mal/Zoe.


Over the course of his life, Malcolm Reynolds has found himself on the wrong side of many a cell door. From the Rim's crude metal boxes to the austere Core prisons, he reckons he's seen them all, could probably write a book if someone offered him enough platinum for it.

The one he finds himself in on this particular Unification Day isn't remarkable, either for its comfort or lack thereof. It's just a cell on a moon that supported the Alliance a long time ago and kind of wishes that second war, the one Mal's side won, hadn't taken place. There's a window, at least, and a metal pail for him to piss in, and a wooden plank for him to lie on while he tries to figure out how the gorram hell he's going to get out of here.

Through the bars – which don't look easy to remove – Mal can see the blanched sky slowly turning a kind of soapy grey wisped with red clouds. It looks bloodshot.

_River_, Mal thinks, but he knows it's no good. Time was, she could hear him from just about anywhere in the 'verse, or so it seemed. All he had to do was close his eyes, concentrate on his need for her, and she'd come, skin flashing starlight, eyes like the black itself, his warrior-dancer.

But that was before they lost _Serenity_.

Last time Mal saw River, she was dancing amid the stunted brush on some desert moon, small bare feet kicking up rusty sparks. "Have to be alone," she said without looking at him, so he waited until night fell. Then he waited until dawn. When she still wouldn't come with him, he left her there. It wasn't a marooning; the moon was settled. She'd find food, lodging, and transport off-world should she decide she wanted it.

Mal touches the scars on his left cheek and chin, where fragments of _Serenity_ buried themselves in his bones. There's an ache, which he now and then tells himself shouldn't be, since the outer worlds won their independence. Sometimes, though, it feels as deep as Serenity Valley and there's just no denying it.

"Well," he says, "I'm humped."

It's full dark and Mal has taken up pacing by the time someone comes in with his supper – a clay pitcher of water, and a mug containing thin broth with half-cooked noodles and chunks of some overripe, unidentifiable vegetable.

"My compliments to the chef," Mal says blandly.

"It's more 'n you deserve, stirring up trouble," says the guard, who's lanky and dull-eyed. Even unarmed, Mal could almost certainly take him. If only someone would take care of these bars between them first.

"I know, I know. I've been very naughty."

"Brawlin' in taverns…"

"Ma always told me, if you're gonna brawl, you do it in a tavern, not my living room."

The guard scowls, like he's taking Mal's easy mood as a personal affront. "I don't get it. You _won_ the rutting war."

"Old habits die hard," Mal tells him affably. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll have some of that delicious-looking soup…"

The guard spits in it.

"Here, now. If I'd wanted garnish, I'd've—"

The guard thrusts the mug and pitcher through the bars. "The captain'll be here soon to take you off our hands. And good riddance."

"Well," says Mal, after the guard has stormed off, "that was ominous." He spills the soup into the metal pail, but keeps the pitcher of water.

CENTER*/CENTER

Time was, Mal could sleep just about anywhere on just about anything. Nowadays, his joints want some sort of mattress, don't matter how thin, just so long as it's between him and a hard surface. Since his jailers lack the manners to provide him with one, since it's too cold to use his jacket, and since his empty stomach is whining, he spends the night awake, sometimes sitting and tapping his feet, sometimes pacing, which he can only do for so long on account of his limp.

It must be shortly before midnight when another guard comes in, this one somewhat more official looking than the one who'd brought him his so-called supper. This one informs him that he'll be taken off-world by a cargo ship first thing tomorrow morning, and transported to Atalanta.

"Any particular reason?" Mal asks.

"Apparently, you're Wanted there." Mal can hear the capital letter. "Our moon ain't the first one you've, ah, graced with your presence, Captain Reynolds. Some higher up pulled some strings, and they got dibs on your hide. Shame. Was looking forward to getting my boys to provoke you again."

"Huh," says Mal.

He's left alone again.

CENTER*/CENTER

Dawn on this moon is no breathtaking sight. The sky goes ashen, then flushes an unhealthy pink. Birds call petulantly to one another.

At the first footfalls, Mal throws what's left of the water in his face. He's fully alert by the time Zoe – he's known it would be her since the mention of Atalanta – is escorted in.

"We'll cuff him for you," one of Mal's guards says, but Zoe shakes her head.

"That won't be necessary. Just open the cell and leave us."

"Captain Washburne—" the guard protests.

She cuts him off with a glance. "Just do it. I'm under orders and if you get in my way… I'll be the least of your worries."

Her voice is calm and her lips quirk in a smile, but there's no doubting the steel behind her countenance. The guards hurry to do as they're told.

Once they're alone, Mal and Zoe sit shoulder to shoulder on the wooden plank, hands on knees, and look at each other.

"Thanks for coming," Mal says at length.

"Wouldn't call it a pleasure, Captain," says Zoe. "You couldn't have spent Unification Day on a world with better beer?"

"Oh, is _that_ why you waited until morning to come get me…Captain?"

"Had business to conduct. Was pretty sure you'd sit tight once you knew I was there."

"Atalanta," says Mal. "Still never been there."

"I know that."

"I know you do."

She doesn't return his grin. "Captain, if I may…"

"You always may," says Mal. "Unless you're going to tell me I need to start behaving myself."

"We won the war."

"I know, I know. Got the scars and the limp to remind me. Once a year, I just like to rub it in. That so wrong?"

She sighs. "Just don't see the point of putting yourself in harm's way if there's no need. Nothing's on the line now."

"Not even my reputation as a troublemaker?"

"Mal…" She's all steel now, and he remembers how she was at the start of the second war, when she thought she had so little to lose. Scared him more than once, she did. All that's past; she has her own ship now, her own crew, her own life, and she lives it.

"I'm listening," he says.

"Thing is," says Zoe, "I'm worried. About what might happen if, one of these years, I can't figure out where you're going to be. Or if I can't get there in time. We're both getting older, slower. Someone pulls a knife on you, or a gun, I might not be able to get my documents forged in time to—"

"Zoe." He makes to pat her hand, but she stops him with a shake of her head. The magnificent hair, he notices, is more threaded with grey than it had been the last time he'd seen it.

"I wasn't finished. Ain't wrong to be glad we won. Ain't wrong to celebrate. But Mal, I've never been a fan of gloating. That's something the Alliance used to do."

He gets stiffly to his feet, walks to the cell door, stops, then swings back to her. "Don't ever compare my behavior to theirs. Some damaged property and broken jaws is nothing to burned out villages, to experimenting on people, to—" He's shaking and he can't seem to stop himself. There's anger, but it's mostly fatigue and frustration, with himself, with the 'verse. He has what he fought for – self-determination, for each world, for each man or woman – and yet, the things he lost…

Zoe's hands on his forearms stop his shaking. The curve of her shoulder, the spill of her hair – there's the softness he can lay his cheek against.

"Mm'sorry," he mumbles.

"Me too."

They can't stand thus for long; if someone comes in, Zoe will be found out and they'll both be in trouble. So, they pull apart. But they smile as they do.

"Thanks for coming to get me," Mal says. "Captain Washburne."

"Captain Reynolds," says Zoe. "You know I always would."

He does.

"Think drinks are in order," she says as she starts to lead him from the cell. "Your treat."

07.08.07


End file.
